


Say My (True) Name

by ExtraPenguin



Category: Burn Witch Burn - Ego Likeness (Song), Original Work
Genre: Books, Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Name-Based Magic, Witchcraft, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7011223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraPenguin/pseuds/ExtraPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kvaru Qintukantaklu, a farmer girl, runs off to the City and learns of concealed tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say My (True) Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts).



> Happy Jukeboxtide, Measured_Words! When I saw your prompt and listened to this song, I knew I _had_ to write you a treat.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, Arithanas!
> 
>  
> 
> [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3LqgpisBfM)

“ _The court has lost perspective”, she snarled._

“ _Speak your mind as much as you like, witch”, the Archpriest of Accusation said. “Deny all the things you have done. The congregation will find the truth, and the truth is that you are guilty.”_

 

Kvaru Qintukantaklu sat down and listened to Priest Tluma. She found his sermons boring, and kept having to stave off the siren call of dreams.

Part of the issue, perhaps, was that the core of each sermon was exactly the same: We The Virtuous gave up witchcraft, and the gods rewarded us with this land free from human habitation. Tluma's window dressings were different, as was occasionally the focus, but the condemnation of witchery and the praise of gods ended up looking very much the same after almost two decades of listening.

She practiced the art of attentive-looking thought. Today's sermon would be the last one for a long while.

 

The next day, Kvaru saddled Prathami, the family's old bay gelding, and set off for the City at dawn. The daughter of a farming community, she had nothing to her name, and thus her saddlebags had nothing but what she and Prathami would need for the journey. Her brothers and sisters could well help with the family farm; Kvaru considered the horizon a challenge. She had no interest in marriage and farming, and had stated so to all her family.

It was mid-morning when the village fell behind a swell in the ground. Kvaru waited a few more moments, then called on the true-name of Thastukvukita, god of the wind, travelers, and Naming. Thus bound, the god gave Prathami the stride of a giant and the energy of a songbird, and they galloped the two-day journey in an afternoon, Prathami's stride devouring the ground.

When the City's spires were visible on the horizon, Kvaru released the wind-god. Prathami slowed to a walk and wasn't even breathing heavily.

She took a moment to laugh. Oh, Priest Tluma really shouldn't have given so many examples of witchen corruption if he hadn't wanted for anyone to follow their call! The wind-god's true-name had been right there for the taking, too, though Tluma was more justified in his assumptions that peasant girls couldn't read, and certainly couldn't break into his home.

 

At dusk, she arrived at the gates.

“Halt!” the guard said, signs of boredom seeping from every sinew. “What brings you here?”

“I am Kvaru Qintukantaklu, of Tlitha's Hill village. I have come to the City to seek employment.”

The guard arched an eyebrow. “A farmer girl? What would you do in the City?”

Kvaru shrugged. “I am the youngest of five, and my father and stepmother may yet add to the number. I have taught myself to read, and thus would seek employ with the archivists, or anyone else who may need a woman of letters.”

The guard looked at his compatriot, who nodded. Kvaru was let into the city.

 

Kvaru, with an excess of grain and water, found it easy to get to the Master of Archives. She was a short woman, frail and pale from the days spent inside. She gave no name, for to know her given name would be a handle on her true-name, and she could not let anyone have that power over her.

Kvaru, as always, was Kvaru Qintukantaklu. She could read. She was employed, sorting old texts into the appropriate shelves. Once she learned to write, she could be used for copying of the texts.

 

Kvaru let Prathami loose into the garden that the Archives and Priesthood shared. They were a place of meditation, with trees providing shade onto rounded wood benches, and the water pond in the center encircled by a footpath. They extended beyond the City walls, and had room enough for the few horses and donkeys who grazed there. Prathami would be in a paradise, providing meditators with the “essential existence of the living”.

She carried his tack up onto the third floor of the Archivists' Barracks, where she had an austere room of her own. It was half-empty, and thus she had been able to get a room with a window that pointed to the garden. Prathami had befriended the other horses already, and grazed happily.

 

The Archives were rows upon rows of scrolls, neatly stored in separated sections of shelf, labeled with the author, categorized by topic and era. The only flaw in the system was the one section of ancient scrolls, where the shelves holding them had abruptly collapsed, and they had been stored away uncategorized whilst the replacement shelf was being built.

By day, Kvaru sorted the scrolls. Come night, she would return to read them. Most were uninspiring – early taxation records, census counts, minutes of city planning meetings – but amidst the chaff, there was wheat.

It took Kvaru two days to get to the first scroll detailing magic. It spoke of how the legendary Lasqrun Tathtakanqratu called upon the true-name of the wind-god Thastukvukita, and brought the ship with its hundred settlers to the fertile shores of the land. Then, it told of the lull of farming, when suddenly the sea reared back and came crashing, and again Lasqrun called upon the true-name of a god, this time Mutamuthtana, goddess of water and weather. Then, it told of how Lasqrun had led the settlers inland, up into the hills where the City was. It ended with Lasqrun calling upon the god of farming, Pvalkatlukra, and the goddess of cities and childbirth, Kvamutlilath, to bless the settlers with crops and children, before him being called to the ground. The treatise was authored by Lasqrun's son, Kritla Lasqrunkanqratu, and contained detailed instructions on how Lasqrun had done each phase, in addition to the gods' true-names.

Kvaru filed it under early history, and pressed the scroll and the true-names into memory.

 

As she read more of the early history, it was apparent that the great wave spoken of by Kritla had been true and no exaggeration. The settlers had left their lands due to hardship – what had they done to anger Mutamuthtana so? Surely they had been wise enough to say thanks for their passage, and sacrifice at least some animal to her, if not the customary goat?

More and more, Kvaru gravitated towards the earliest historic scrolls, the ones that would nearly crumble at the touch. What she was looking for would be forbidden, so she looked for the uncopied originals.

From there, she found tragedy.

 

_They could not harm her. They knew not her true-name._

_She, the priest, her mother – three people who'd known her true-name. Only one survived._

 

The scroll was old and fragile. Kvaru was grateful for her archivist's training, for it was the only thing that let her read it.

What its author, Kathmu Klirrakantaklu, wrote was beyond horrifying.

> We came to these shores because our leaders disagreed with the increased taxation of our home. Tathta Tluqvakanqratu, our colony leader, would rather kill us all than give any of his grain to the king.
> 
> The only reason we made it to the shore was that Tathta's dead witch-wife had passed the gift to her younger son Lasqrun.
> 
> The only reason we made it past the first winter was that the natives were willing to share their food with us strangers. Tathta repaid their kindness by calling for slaughter. My voice was the only dissent. I was nearly driven out for it.
> 
> Tathta's model son, Talu Tathtakanqratu, led the assault. We first gave them blankets from those dead from the coughing death. Then, when they came to us for aid, we came for them with pitchforks.
> 
> The gods were angry with us. Mutamuthtana sent the fury of the seas to punish us, but again Lasqrun saved our lives, if not our consciences.
> 
> Tathta moved us inland, to the hills. Lasqrun, ever desperate for his father's acknowledgment, called upon the gods to bless our pathetic village of murderers. His reward was death at his father's hand for the now-crime of witchcraft.
> 
> Posterity, forgive me. I took the coward's choice of survival. I was then a sudden widow, two children at my arms and another within, and did not raise my voice in objection when Tathta crowned himself king, the likes of which he had so long despised. My final, pathetic rebellions were raising my children myself, away from their uncle Talu's household, and writing this scroll. May my son Kritla smuggle this into the archives. May some innocent soul find it, and expose the lies that were Tathta's legacy.

Kvaru carefully set the scroll back where it had been. She vowed to learn to write, so that she could copy the scroll and send one to everyone.

 

Kvaru carefully practiced each letter-glyph on the clay tablet. Soon, she would be good enough to copy manuscripts.

Hidden in her pockets was a folded piece of paper with every divine true-name she knew of, along with their areas of expertise and what prior callers had had them do.

She had two copies of the Kathmu scroll already, the first hidden in her rooms as backup. As soon as she finished with the third one, she would speak to the Master of Archives, and then the King.

 

The Master of Archives dismissed it as the rant of a bitter widow, and while she admitted that it would be interesting to combine it with other known scrolls to get more of a feel for the Founders, she refused to pass on Kvaru's request to meet the King.

Thus, Kvaru had to take matters into her own hands, and found herself dodging the mostly ceremonial palace guards at midnight. The short stretch of grass and the tiny river-cum-moat around the palace were only for show; the real defenses lay at the City walls and at the King's side, at the door to his rooms. Kvaru had over a decade of experience in climbing to places she wasn't meant to visit. The stone walls had been roughened by time, and were home to sturdy creeping vines. Kvaru easily scaled to the topmost window, and climbed in.

The room had one inhabitant, roused from her bed by Kvaru's arrival. She was pale and plump from a lifetime of indoor luxury and not a day's hard work.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Kvaru was not up-to-date on who, exactly, the royals were, but the woman looked like she was highborn, and thus if not the Queen, at least a lady-in-waiting.

“I am an Archivist, and have discovered an old scroll that contains knowledge I feel should be brought to royal attention immediately”, Kvaru said. “The Master of Archives disagreed, so I had to use more unorthodox means of doing so. Please forgive my intrusion.”

The woman sat up straighter. “All right, you obviously think it's important. What does the scroll say?”

Kvaru handed her the most recent copy. “This is an accurate copy of the scroll's contents. I invite you to read it, for no summary of mine could do it justice.”

The woman accepted the scroll graciously, then read it. Her eyebrows scrunched up. She read it again, then handed it back to Kvaru. “I do not believe this.”

“ _Why?_ ” Kvaru asked. What was it with people's disbelief at this, when they believed way more ludicrous things with ease?

“It is obviously a plot brought of jealousy – its author, wife of Tathta's _younger_ son, was obviously angry that Tathta established primogeniture, favoring his elder son.” She considered for a moment. “I do think that it gives new information, in that the witch purges started with Tathta rather than his son Talu, as was previously thought. It might even be possible that Tathta murdered his witch-son rather than risk Lasqrun killing his brother and inheriting.” Again, she paused. “You probably already know this, but chief of the Founders' motivations in coming here was escape from the old world's witch-kings. The gods are meant to be worshiped, not commanded.” She yawned. “If you'd please give a copy to the historians? They'd certainly be interested in any manuscripts from that era. You may go now.” She went back to sleep in her large bed with luxurious sheets.

Kvaru, unsure of whether to go back out via the window or to brave the halls, hatched a plan. She tried one of the numerous doors leading out from the room. There were no sounds, so Kvaru opened it.

A fortune's worth of fine clothes and jewelry greeted her. Excellent.

Kvaru chose one of the chain-like decorations. She called upon Tuqakrulnat, goddess of knowledge and learning.

Tuqakrulnat whispered of the necklace, the names of all the substances in the chains and the little stones that hung between them. Kvaru asked for her to imbibe the necklace with the knowledge of the scroll, and have everyone nearby gradually learn what had happened.

Tuqakrulnat granted her request. She released the goddess, and climbed out of the room, down to the ground. As always, it was slower than the journey up.

 

Come morning, Kvaru brought the second copy of the scroll to the historians. Hopefully, they would understand and believe. Their very job was to think of the past and chronicle the present.

The Master of History was understanding, and promised to read it, but Kvaru saw doubt on his face.

She went back to her job of sorting the unsorted scrolls.

 

The following morning, Kvaru woke to a loud knocking on her door.

“Kvaru Qintukantaklu, we know you're there”, a man's voice came. He sounded familiar – yes. One of the gate guards.

Kvaru very silently sneaked into her clothes, grabbed Prathami's saddle and bridle, made sure she had the scrolls, and shimmied out of the window, awkwardly climbing down to the gardens. It was early yet, so there were no meditators in. Kvaru spotted Prathami, called upon the true-name of Thalsaqripu, god of horses, to clean his coat, then hurriedly tacked him up and hopped on.

There would be guards at the City gates. Kvaru nudged Prathami towards the lesser hole in the walls that connected the interior gardens with the exterior gardens. She made it out unnoticed.

She took a moment to think. The necklace must have come to attention. Horses had no true-names, so Prathami could not be controlled by any but Thalsaqripu. Kvaru _did_ have a true-name, known to her, her mother, and the priest Tlura. Her mother was dead. If Tlura were a victim of silence, only the gods themselves could hold power over her.

She prayed a silent appeal to the gods for favor, so that she could atone for her ancestors' mistakes. Then, she summoned the wind-god, and Prathami bounded towards small Tlitha's Hill.

 

Before long, Tlitha's Hill loomed on the horizon. Kvaru waited until she was closer before releasing the wind-god. This time, Prathami kept to a trot.

She had to plan. What would she do? Ask the gods to remove her true-name from Tlura's lips, yes. How, and what then? She consulted the list of gods and their true-names. She slowed Prathami to a walk so that she could properly read.

Ah. Luntatlutas, god of words, speech, poetry, and music. She took a breath, and called upon his true-name. “Please strike from Priest Tlura the ability to use my true-name or pass my true-name on to anyone.” Then, she released him with a thanks. No point in being discourteous to the gods.

That left only the problem of how to spread the truth. Again, she consulted the list of gods' true-names. Good. Qvataqvakathvu, goddess of truth, justice, and retribution, was represented. Kvaru was glad she'd copied down the examples of what the true-names had been used for, for what she wanted was advice, and the true-name had been used for that. Some deities would not – could not – give advice.

She called Qvataqvakathvu by her true-name, then asked for advice on how to spread the truth.

Qvataqvakathvu rewarded her with a feeling of confidence, and whispered into her mind.

_Call on the true-name of Lasqrun Tathtakanqratu. Make him lift the silence he pushed on us. Ask Manukurataras for his true-name._

Manukurataras did not bring anything to mind. He or she must be one of the hidden deities who stayed out of the affairs of mortals. No true-name was listed in Kvaru's list. She would then have to simply ask politely.

“Manukurataras, honorable deity, I have come to ask you the true-name of Lasqrun Tathtakanqratu.”

Manukurataras's response carried with it the deep rumbles of the very eons and the high whistling of the wind as the deity gave Kvaru all twenty-seven syllables of Lasqrun's true-name.

“Thank you, Manukurataras.”

With that, Kvaru called the twenty-seven syllables she had been given. She took a deep breath to replenish what she had expended. “Lasqrun. Remove the silence you have bound the gods with.”

It was as if the land tingled. _They might hurt us. I hope you know what you are doing._

“Giving us the truth”, she said.

_I wanted to protect you from it._

“How are we supposed to live, if all we are is based on a lie?” she asked.

_Yes. Forgive me, child. I was weak. Forgive me._

The presence faded back into the land of Kikamuqiqlith, goddess of the dead.

 

Kvaru soon arrived in the village. She had not expected a welcoming committee, but there they were, pitchforks in hand.

“So you return, witch”, her father said.

“Archivist”, Kvaru corrected. “Witch” was an overstatement. She did not have that much practice.

“How do you dare show your face after what you have done?” he hissed.

Horse theft should not merit this large a response, and even if they had seen Prathami gallop with the wind-god's aid, they wouldn't be so hostile – all had heard rumors of traders binding the wind-god to get to the next village before water ran out.

The crowd stirred and parted. Priest Tluma strode through.

Luntatlutas had certainly granted her wish, though not in the way she had envisioned. Tluma was handless and tongueless, and understandably bitter.

Kvaru felt her mouth set. “If you do not wish to see me here, I can certainly go away.” She turned Prathami away from the village, only to see a company of armed riders sweep towards the village, obviously having summoned the wind-god. The pursuit.

The leader of the company, atop a beautiful flaxen liver chestnut, spoke. “Kvaru Qintukantaklu, you are wanted for threatening the kingdom's security. Come with us.” He had a spear in his hand and was ready to use it.

Kvaru sighed. She stroked Prathami's blood-red neck under his ink-black mane. “I'll go with you. This land has seen enough bloodshed to last it for the next twelve millennia.”

 

She had achieved what she had set out to do, but the lot of the victor was bitter. She was in a stone cell in the City, and while she might be able to bind a god to her service and free herself, all those paths would only lead to blood.

She sat, and remembered what her mother had sung to her when she was small, about the twins Fear and Pain, unable to harm anyone who didn't invoke them. She gently hummed the melody and thought of the half-forgotten words. She would be brought to trial soon, but fear and shame were far from her mind. She could not suffer: she had not done anything wrong. The gods were on her side.

She reached the refrain, repeated and thus remembered, and sang it out loud.

 

Kvaru sat on the chair provided, guarded by two men with spears, one on each side of her. The judge sat on a higher one opposite her, and to one side was a jury of Archivists and persons with similar rank. On the other side, her father and stepmother, and assorted City people.

Kvaru could kill all of them should she desire to. They? They could not harm her. They didn't know her true-name. She, the priest, her mother – three people who'd known her true-name. Only she survived.

The Archpriest of Accusation listed her crimes. Theft. Lies. Stepping above her caste by learning to read. Deception. Cursing the Queen's necklace. Murder of a Priest, for no handless, tongueless abomination could be allowed to live.

“The court has lost perspective”, she snarled. Oh, how she wished she could take Tlura back. “The important matter at hand is that I uncovered lies perpetrated by the past and did my best to spread the truth.”

“Speak your mind as much as you like, witch”, he said. “Deny all the things you have done. The congregation will find the truth, and the truth is that you are guilty.”

Qvataqvakathvu whispered reassurance in her mind. _You are right. You are in the right. When this land recovers from its three centuries of madness, they will sing your praises._

“ _Burn, witch, burn_ ”, the spectators chanted.

“This court finds the witch guilty of every crime under the Sun”, the judge said.

Kvaru had a sour taste in her mouth. This was a farce. What could they _do_ to her – bore her to death? No-one present had even bothered to use her call-name, never mind her true-name.

“Say my name”, she said.

“Witches don't get call-names, witch”, the Master of Archives said from the jury.

“And how do you propose to punish me, if you do not say my true-name?” Kvaru asked. “You'd better say my name.”

And with that, they fell silent.

 _There are more amenable people to the North_ , Qvataqvakathvu whispered in suggestion. North, home of the gods. Kvaru agreed. Her work here was done, and she had learned all she could from the Archives here.

Her shackles fell down from divine influence, and Prathami formed from a shadow, very nonplussed. Kvaru hopped on top of him, and followed the suggestion of the gods.


End file.
